His Final Letter
by la12la3
Summary: One shot that takes place after The Fall. Sherlock is on the run and still taking down Moriarty's network, when he breaks down and decides to end it all. The guilt of his faked suicide becomes too much to handle. However, before he "leaves," he must first write John a letter. His final letter.


**WARNING: Mentions of suicide and depression. **

Sherlock sat trembling at the edge of his hotel bed. He was done. He couldn't take it anymore. The guilt was killing him, slowly collapsing his mind palace. Sherlock could only watch in terror as his precious rooms burned down, destroying the evidence of his life, the life that was about to end.

Sherlock couldn't remember the exact moment that he had realized he could tread no further. It wasn't after the first kill, nor the second. He didn't feel guilty about those deaths; those deaths were to protect John Watson and he would never feel emotion towards someone who wanted to harm his blogger.

Maybe it was when he had overheard Mycroft on the phone, when he was talking about John going back to his therapist. Sherlock had brought back John's PTSD. How could he do such a thing? John didn't deserve that. John deserved happiness, nothing less.

Sherlock rubbed his hands roughly over his face, smearing the tears that fell down his face, the same way he fell from Barts, fast and unrelenting. Looking up, he took it his last sight. The room wasn't where he had imagined dying, of course he hadn't thought that it would end this way. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be anymore. It would never be right again. Nothing was right without John Watson.

The hotel had been the cheapest he could find that still took cash, so he wouldn't have to answer questions. The room was small and old. Peeling yellow flowered wallpaper lined the perimeter, matched with the most atrocious shade of burgundy for carpet. The bed smelled of mildew and the curtains had a green tint at the bottom. This was no place to die with dignity.

But he didn't deserve dignity, did he? What person who lets, no, _makes _his best friend watch him commit suicide deserves to die with dignity? Sherlock was never on the side of the angles, so he didn't earn the right to die like one. No, this was what his life had earned him. He had no honor.

Taking a deep, shaking breath, Sherlock reached over to his bedside table and pulled out his notepad and pen. It was time to write his note.

He knew he had already said one to John, but that one was fake. The lies that would protect John, _his John. _However, this note was real. These were truly going to be his last words, the words he needed to say. Sherlock knew that John would never read this note, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He was writing it because he needed to. He needed to put the truth on paper, not die with loose ends. He hated loose ends, cases unsolved. Sherlock was suddenly overcome with the memory of his and John's first "unsolved" case.

The case particulars were irrelevant and Sherlock quickly skipped to the part he needed to see. Coking on his sob, Sherlock bit his fist as John's face came into his mind. The only face that mattered.

John and Sherlock had just left the last crime scene that Sherlock had attended for the remainder of the case. He had huffed and called for a taxi without giving John a second glance. He had been mad at himself, angered that he couldn't solve the case, couldn't help give the family some closer.  
>Sherlock had started when he had felt John's hand on his shoulder, strong and reassuring.<p>

* * *

>"Sherlock, not every case can be solved. I know you don't like to admit it, but you are human and you will not be able to figure them all out. Not all mysteries are meant to be answered."<br>At this, Sherlock had turned to John and given him a solemn nod of understanding. The pair had gone on to eat Chinese in their flat, sitting lazily in their chairs. John had let Sherlock rant on and on about whatever he could think of, anything to keep his mind off the case. John had always known what Sherlock needed.

Too bad John was gone. No, Sherlock corrected himself, _he _was gone. John hadn't gone anywhere, Sherlock had been the one to throw himself off the hospital.

He could still remember the harsh cold wind burning his face and the tears that had fallen from his eyes as he had said his goodbyes. Having to lie to protect his best friend.

Sherlock thrust his palms into his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to get it together to write, he had to put the truth on paper, it was his last wish.

Picking up his pen, Sherlock began his letter;

_Dear John,_

He had barely written the name before the pen fell out of his hand. Dear John? John was his blogger, his best friend, but also his soldier. Why was his memory as cruel as to pull up yet another event that held John's faithful face?

Sherlock and John had been chasing a criminal through the back alleys of London. What was new? But this time, the criminal had been smarter than Sherlock had calculated.

Without thinking, Sherlock had rounded a corner and came face to face with the suspect holding a knife. In a second, Sherlock was in a headlock with a knife against his throat. John had turned the corner, always a split second behind Sherlock's long legs, and froze. Seeing his best friend in trouble, John had held up his hands in a sign of surrender.

"Now now, no need to do anything rash. Lets just put the knife away and talk," John tried to reason with the criminal.

However, the criminal only backed away further, still dragging Sherlock along with him.  
>It only took a second for Sherlock to lock eyes with John. John nodded and rushed them as Sherlock tucked his chin and got out of the man's grip. While Sherlock recovered his breath, he had watched in awe as John fought the suspect with his military ease.<p>

Once the suspect was unconscious, John had quickly came over to tend to Sherlock.

"Nice job, soldier."

John had smirked, a marvelous little quirk of his lips.

Nothing more was said of the incident as John slowly examined Sherlock, keeping the detective safe. Always.

"Not always," Sherlock muttered quietly to himself.

Where was John now? Sherlock needed John so badly, he missed his blogger to the point that it hurt. He was in agony, yet he was empty. Yet, he lacked the strength to access what that even meant.

Sighing, he continued his note...

_Dear John,_

_I am sorry. I know that's not nearly enough to mend the pain I have caused you. I'm so so sorry. I can't even write what I need to. I can't think straight... I need you, John. I understand that you will never see this. You buried me years ago and it's best that you continue to move on without having to mourn me again. You deserve to find happiness, you deserve to forget me. Yet, the thought of you forgetting me makes to sick, but it must be done. It is the only way that you will be able to start over and live the rest of your life like it should be lived, full of happiness and compassion and other sentiments that I will never fully understand. That's okay though. I don't need to understand, I just need to know that you do. You were always my social compass, my personal road map to the human emotional spectrum. I can't even remember what life was like before I found you, or you found me, however you like to see it. Now I'm just rambling, delaying the inevitable. _

_You see, John, I am weak. I am too weak to continue. I hate to admit it, but after all is said and done, I am just a human. I feel pain. The guilt that has accumulated over the past few years has finally reached a boiling point. I cannot carry it alone, but your life is too precious to risk sharing my burden with you. I cannot live with the pain and turmoil I have caused you. It is my time to end, but I must first write out the truths that were denied to you in my first "letter." _

_I am not a fake. I know that you know this, but I still feel the need to write it out. I never researched you, you came into my life by fate, as the universe is rarely so lazy to let such a grand coincidence happen. That two men should stumble upon each other when they were both in their greatness need of such loving companionship._

_The day that I fell, Moriarty had had a sniper aimed at your head. He also had two others, one for Mrs. Hudson and another for Greg Lestrade(yes, I remember his name when it counts). If I didnt jump, all three of you would have died. All three of you would have been taken from me and I am much to selfish to let that happen. So I jumped, I fell. I let you grieve and mourn. I let your PTSD come back with vengeance and left you without your best friend. Yes, I believe that I was your best friend. Neither of us verbalized it, but I know it was an unspoken truth. We were each others best friends and we loved one another. _

_I have had to stay "dead" to help track down and annihilate Moriarty's remaining network. I understand that this is a task I will never complete, never complete, never.._

Sherlock sat up suddenly. If he did this, if he ended his life right here and right now, then he would leave loose ends. He would leave John in danger and would have caused John to suffer for nothing. It would all be worthless.

No, no he couldn't do that to John. Not after everything else he had done to the poor man.

Folding the letter, Sherlock placed it neatly in his shirt pocket.

The end would have to wait.

Sherlock would go on and take down Moriarty's network, he would ensure John's safety. Then... Well, he didn't know what would happen next, but he would leave without loose ends.

And maybe, just maybe, John would be a loose end that he could wrap up. Maybe he could be the hand that wiped John's tears and John could help Sherlock heal his scars.

Sherlock shook his head, not allowing himself to entertain such thoughts yet. He had work to do and he would have John's letter right there with him, silently hoping that his soldier would lead him home.

**Thank you so much for reading. This one hurt to write and I'm sorry for all the feelings it might have produced. Please review if you have a moment and have a great day.**


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